


Toothpaste Kisses

by dlm



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, minus the smut soz, private detective AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:26:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4749755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dlm/pseuds/dlm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are British spy, then?” Illya says.</p><p>“German. Not a spy,” Gaby adds belatedly.</p><p>He nods in mock understanding. “Ah. I see. So you are a thief, no? Except you have been spying on me for several weeks now.” He purses his lips. “So you are spy-thief.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toothpaste Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> private detective au! gaby's a PI and mechanic on the side (idk) and U.N.C.L.E. isn't a spy organization--it's a think tank. canon 1960s era tho.
> 
> idk. just go with it.

 

Gaby pushes her ponytail aside with a flick of her head and sighs. “You sure this is him?” she says into her walkie-talkie; peering through her binoculars. Inside the building, there’s a very, very tall man standing right next to the window, and he darts a glance up and down the street before closing the curtains shut.

“I’m very certain,” Solo says dryly. “I’ve been told that he’s the best the KGB has to offer.”

“Funny,” Gaby snorts. “Just because he’s Russian.”

“A Russian who’s built like a horse,” Solo points out. “I just have a gut feeling that he’s not just another researcher for a think tank.”

“I could say the same about you,” Gaby says. “Your past isn’t exactly squeaky clean.”

Solo chuckles. “Just do your job, Ms. Teller.”

The line goes dead, and Gaby sighs. The thing is, Solo has a point. After further research, she had discovered that Illya Kuryakin wasn’t just one of the world’s leading researchers--he held a black belt in judo and had an elo rating of 2401 in chess. Any man would have dismissed such facts as hobbies, but she was hired by a man who promised to throw cash at her face, so, whatever. The problem is, Illya was as secretive as they came.

“I’m dealing with a hermit,” she mutters to herself as she puts her binoculars away. She has a few tracking devices in her bag, and she considers her surroundings. There’s a clothesline that connects the building where’s she’s stood at and Illya’s apartment. Other than that, there are some balconies sticking out of the two buildings. Illya is in a building with a higher rooftop than where she’s at, so climbing from one rooftop to another is out of the question.

She considers her options--she’s dressed in nondescript black clothing, complete with sport shoes, so perhaps climbing from balcony to balcony is possible. The clothesline doesn’t exactly look promisingly strong, anyway, she thinks, as she lowers herself from the rooftop onto a balcony. She lands with an ‘oof’, and dusts herself off.

To get to Illya’s, she has to make the jump from the terrace she’s at to the next. She perches herself on the railing and leaps--relieved when she makes it to the other side; partly due to the lower fencing the other building’s terraces have. Once she gets the hang of it, making the descent to Illya’s place is a lot simpler than she had initially thought.

When she arrives at Illya’s balcony, the curtains are still closed. Light leaks through, though, so he’s probably still in the house. The window doubling as a sliding door is her only entry way to the inside of the apartment.

Afraid of getting caught, but unsure of her next available option, she takes a look at the case file Solo had handed to her before the mission, while keeping an eye on the still-closed curtains. She’s pressed to the side of the door; out of sight. She had brought up the fact that she would not be able to enter through his balcony without getting caught, but Solo had reassured her that he would have gone out by the time he had closed his curtains.

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” she mutters as she hesitantly pushes the door open. It’s locked, so she pulls her lock picks out of her bag and tries to break in as silently as possible. After a while, there’s a promising-sounding click that echoes from the lock. She’s not sure whether she’s unlocked the door--or worse, rendered it useless, but she presses on and slides the door open.

The door gives way in a fluid motion and she parts the curtains, albeit nervously. The room is surprisingly empty, and she pauses for a moment in order to pick up on any sound Illya’s probably making. Instead, there’s only silence, so maybe she was right in trusting Solo, despite his rather invasive request, she thinks, as she stares down at the tracking and listening devices she’s fished out.

Illya’s place--the living room, at least--is depressingly dull and rather utilitarian in appearance. The only thing that slightly alludes to any form of sentimentality are several framed photos of a smiling family. Gaby assumes that Illya’s the small, light-haired child standing next to a straight-faced man and his smiling wife.

She begins by walking over to his phone with a listening device in hand before she stops herself. Solo had specifically warned her against him, so maybe bugging him in a rather stereotypical place to be bugged would be the unwise thing to do.

Backing away, she considers her other options. His shoes, which are left next to the couch would probably be a good place to start, so she makes an incision in the sole and inserts the tracker before closing the gaps with some glue she had taken from the mechanic’s. She moves on to a clock; bugging it, before she tentatively approaches his bedroom door.

Or at least, she hopes she’s standing in front of his bedroom. The door right across it has a doormat, so she’s guessing that one leads to the bathroom. She turns the doorknob and takes an apprehensive step inside the room.

If Illya’s living room had appeared to be utilitarian in appearance, his bedroom was an indulgence in consumerism--or rather it at least looked like it was lived in. The room is split into two sections--his bed, and his seemingly elaborate workstation. Other than that, the room is covered in various stacks of paper and thick books on every imaginable surface.

She manages to bug several of his suits, lab coats, and compartments, before she hears the tell-tale sound of keys jangling and the lock being fiddled open. Fuck. The bedroom door is still open, so she closes it as quietly as possible before looking around the room frantically. There’s a window open, and she huffs and gathers her belongings to get the fuck out. She manages to push the window up so she has more room, and she’s out of the window before she realises that the only way she’ll leave unseen is if she drops down into the garbage bin below.

She curses Solo as she drops down--luckily Illya’s place isn’t ten floors above the ground--and lands into the bin without any problems. Excluding the fact that she’s landed in garbage, of course.

But she’s done her job for the night, at the very least, so she sighs in relief and gathers herself to get away from the neighbourhood to return home and activate the trackers.

 

* * *

 

“Last night was a shit show,” Gaby says, as soon as Solo steps into her office.

“A shame,” Solo remarks, looking amused. “I was about to ask you to follow him around.”

Gaby wrinkles her nose. “You said that this was a one-off thing.”

“Yes, I thought so too. Plant the trackers, get out, monitor him once in a while, etcetera.”

“There’s a _but_ , isn’t there.” Gaby says, staring at her tracking monitors in despair.

Solo nods. “I need you to follow him. Hopefully catch him in something, I don’t know,” he says, getting a little frustrated. “He’s gotta have a flaw somewhere.”

“You’re asking me to follow him based on a gut feeling?” Gaby raises her eyebrows in disbelief, and Solo sighs.

“Ms. Teller,” he sighs, “I hired you under the impression that you were a private investigator. I’m basically paying you to entertain me, here. Besides, you’re making it sound like I’m being irrational.”

Gaby shoots him a pointed glare.

“Maybe I am. But I just have this  _feeling_  that I can’t shake. And I’ll pay you double.” Solo says, bringing his briefcase up to his chest and patting it soundly.

After a moment of deliberation, Gaby says, “you should’ve said that from the start.”

Solo beams. “It’s settled, then.”

 

* * *

 

Over the following weeks, Gaby Teller learns three things about Illya Kuryakin:

  1. He likes jazz.

  2. He likes chess.

  3. He likes speedboats.




Granted, all that tells Gaby is the fact that Illya’s a modern-day Renaissance man--or at least in his hobbies. Plus, Solo had told her the thing about chess.  _Still_.

When she taps into the listening devices she’d placed in his home, all she hears is the sounding of a typewriter and the metallic noises that comes with him tinkering with his devices. Occasionally, though, Illya plays jazz records and hums along while he does his work. She’s spotted him doing so on the times where she’s spying on him from the building opposite his.

He doesn’t seem to have any friends--ones that he brings home, anyway, and he plays chess at odd hours in the night. Gaby catches herself wanting to play against him, out of sheer curiosity, before she shakes her head and goes home to prepare his findings to tell Solo in the morning.

(She also finds out about his affinity for speedboats from Solo, who seems to be collecting facts about Illya like it’s a hobby of its own.)

So her routine is thrown off when she spots Illya while she’s browsing through vinyls at a record stores in West Berlin. He’s stood by at the jazz section, and he’s talking to the clerk in rapid-fire German. So far, she has only heard Illya talk in Russian and in heavily accented English, so to hear his nearly flawless accent comes off as a surprise for her.

Gaby turns back to her records. She’s holding _something_  by The Kinks; more to prevent any unwanted attention being brought her way than anything. Perhaps blending in as a young girl who was heavily into rock would help her cover, so she takes another record by The Beatles and pretends to look through the store’s selection while keeping an eye on Illya.

If Gaby’s being honest, she isn’t too sure why Solo’s so fixated on Illya. The man is tall and menacing, sure, but following him so far has been pretty uneventful.

Of course, this all changes when she finds out that Illya’s removed her trackers.

 

* * *

 

“Ms. Teller,” Solo says, handing Gaby an envelope. “I do believe our Russian friend has discovered that he’s being tracked.”

Gaby frowns at the envelope. “Is this...?” Her voice trails off, looking at the envelope with uncertainty, before opening it and wincing. Her trackers, although seemingly left undamaged, are all in the envelope.

There’s a note inside as well, and Gaby pulls it out to read the text aloud. _“Please leave me alone.”_  She snorts. “I guess he has a sense of humor at the very least.”

Solo squints. “You’re not getting off easy on this.”

“Am I not?” She says, holding the note up. “I’ve told you day after day--the man’s practically faultless. I don’t know what you expect me to discover.”

“He discovered your trackers. A sane man would not manage such a feat, let alone be so paranoid to imagine that he was being tracked.”

“Maybe he discovered one by accident,” Gaby supplies.

“For a private investigator, you’re not exactly defending your occupation, here.”

“Because the whole thing is bizarre!” Gaby splutters. “Most people would just, I don't know, fire me and move on with their lives.”

Solo looks at her cryptically. “I’m not most people.”

Gaby snorts. “So I’ve gathered.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know that I’m not going to cut you off. You still have a job.”

“You do realise that just because I’m a private investigator, that doesn’t mean that I have to work for you alone,” she grumbles, but Solo smiles sweetly at her anyway.

Mother of _fuck_ , she thinks, holding a photo of Illya frowning in her hands.

 

* * *

 

Illya catches her--for real this time--when she’s in the process of taking photos of his research papers that he’d left on his desk. She’s about to leave, too; she’s just finished putting her camera back in her satchel when the door opens.

Illya takes one look at her and clears his throat.

“I can explain,” Gaby says, after a moment of silence. She’s holding up a paper of Illya’s and hastily sets it down on the table, trying not to look too guilty.

He crosses his arms and fixes her with a stare, looking amused. “So you are the American spy that has been leaving trackers in my apartment.”

“I’m not American,” Gaby says, before wincing immediately at what she’s said.

Illya raises an eyebrow. “But you are spy?”

“Strictly speaking, no. I mean, I used to work for the MI6,” she says, before stopping. “Why am I telling you all this?” She asks, more towards herself than anything.

“You are British spy, then?” Illya says.

“German. Not a spy,” Gaby adds belatedly.

He nods in mock understanding. “Ah. I see. So you are a thief, no? Except you have been spying on me for several weeks now.” He purses his lips. “So you are spy-thief.”

Gaby sighs. “I’m a private investigator hired to follow you.” She doesn’t see much point in withholding information from someone like Illya, to be honest, and she finds herself rambling on. “And a bad one at that,” she adds, “considering the fact that I’ve been found out. Actually, I’m unsure as to why I was hired.” She finishes, running her fingers over his papers wistfully.

“Who hired you?” Illya says, abruptly. He’s narrowing his eyes at her, and Gaby throws her hands up before letting them fall to her side.

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to share that information.”

“I have caught you spying in the privacy of my own home.” Illya retorts.

“Well, when you put it that way,” she grumbles. “A man named Napoleon Solo hired me to keep track of your work.”

Illya’s smug expression falls off his face and is replaced by a long-suffering one. He brings a hand up to his temples and pinches the sides of his forehead.

“You are kidding me.” He says flatly, and Gaby watches him with amusement.

“Nope,” she grins cheerfully. “Is he your nemesis or something? Am I a double agent now?” She says, partly because she’s hoping if she jokes around enough, he’ll forget about the fact that she was, in fact, caught trespassing on private property.

“You are a comedian,” he says, deadpan. “Also, thank you for the information. I am going to kill Solo.” He points to his front door. “You know the way out. I don’t want you climbing out of windows.”

“Thanks,” she says, still confused, and then, “wait, you’re not going to actually kill him, right?”

Illya looks thoughtful. “Unfortunately not.”

 

* * *

 

“I got caught,” she tells Solo. “Technically, for the second time. You can have your money back for real this time.”

“Nonsense.” He waves her off and takes a seat across her desk. She looks at him questioningly and Solo lets a slow smile spread across his face; the very picture of false innocence.

Gaby deliberates asking Solo about Illya before he notices the admittedly troubled look on her face.

“Did he say anything about me?” Solo asks.

“Only that he wanted to kill you,” Gaby says, which makes Solo bark out a laugh.

“Did he say anything else?”

Gaby squints. “You two know each other, or something?”

Solo crosses his legs. “Or something.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She says, a touch more annoyed.

“It means, Ms. Teller,” he says, smoothly, “that you still get to keep your job.”

Gaby frowns. “I’m still a private investigator. Of course I still have a job.”

“Yes,” Solo replies patiently. “What I meant is that you’ll still work for me,” he says, tapping the photos of Illya on her desk. He still has that stupid self-satisfied smirk on his face, and Gaby feels like she’s not exactly getting the joke here.

She manages to bug Solo just as he leaves her office, because what the hell. She should’ve probably looked into him the moment he’d hired her, but his bizarre task he had set her coupled with a smile had disarmed her. With a sigh, she flips through her list of Illya’s contacts. Perhaps the two were more closely linked than she had thought.

Highlighter in hand, she scans through the file, before stopping on the word _U.N.C.L.E._ The unusual acronym is enough to make her pause and close her eyes shut as she tries to recall where she saw the word last.

“The think tank,” she mutters to herself in conclusion; highlighting the text. The think tank that Illya worked for was called U.N.C.L.E., and according to the data she had gathered, it was managed by a British man named Waverly.

Which, coincidentally, Gaby had heard Solo complain about at some point or another. She caps her highlighter and sets it down thoughtfully. _Huh_. This was proving to be far more interesting than she had initially thought.

 

* * *

 

The next day is a working day, so Gaby supposes that she’ll probably find Solo and Illya in the same area if they do work together--and her radar she had set up for her tracking devices confirms her suspicions. Squinting at the screen, she takes note of their location, which reveals that they’re only a few blocks away.

She finds herself packing her bags and changing into her mechanic’s outfit, in the hopes that she’ll look inconspicuous enough in the daylight. She tosses her notebook and portable radar into her bag, along with a pen. Tightening the straps of her dungarees is the last thing she does before she walks out of her house, rubbing her hands on her thighs in anticipation.

Outside, her radar keeps her updated on their location. The dots on the screen blink as she gets closer, right until the point where she reaches a tall building with several angry-looking people going in and out of the front doors. She’s definitely sure that she’s arrived at her destination, so she tucks her gear away into the safety of her bag.

A man bumps into her and swears in Russian, which seems to fit with her description of U.N.C.L.E. being an international organization; considering the fact that West Berlin isn’t exactly a hotbed of Russian activity. She apologizes to him in German, playing up on her whole innocent young girl image, and he grunts something out in Russian again before walking past her in an agitated manner.

“Fancy seeing you here,” a low voice murmurs in her ear, and she whirls around only to be greeted by Solo, who’s smiling rather infuriatingly.

“You and Illya work for the same organization,” she says through gritted teeth. Solo continues to have the same self-assured expression on his face, which annoys Gaby even more.

“Congratulations, Ms. Teller. You have us figured out.” He shrugs, and Gaby can’t help but feel confused. Their meeting isn’t exactly how she planned on extracting information, but she shakes her head and continues.

“Why am I assigned on all this, then?” she says, raising her arms in frustration.

The smile on Solo’s face turns sharklike. “I’ve been looking for a girlfriend,” he starts, before Gaby cuts in.

“Absolutely not.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he says, still grinning maniacally. “I’m looking for Illya.”

Gaby wrinkles her nose. “Illya’s your girlfriend?”

“No, I’m,” he starts and stops with a sigh while covering his face with his hands before dropping them. “I’m looking for a girlfriend _for_ Illya.”

“Oh,” Gaby says, because what else is there to say, really?

A moment of awkward silence. And then, “I wish you luck in finding her.” She says, clearing her throat afterwards.

“I mean,” Solo groans, and then stops himself when Illya, seemingly out of nowhere, hovers into sight. “Peril! Come here,” he gestures to the space next to him.

Illya looks at him with a raised eyebrow, and then squints at Gaby. “What is going on?”

So much for being a private investigator, she thinks mournfully, remembering the devices in her bag that apparently have no use now.

“You are going on a date with Ms. Teller tonight.” Solo says, cheerfully.

“What,” Gaby and Illya say in unison.

“You are putting me on date with the girl who broke into my house,” Illya says, and at the same time, Gaby says, “you’re making me go out with the guy you paid me to spy on.”

“What?” Illya turns to Solo. “Cowboy, I told you to--”

“Stay out of your love life,” He says, with the same maniacal look that he’s somehow maintained throughout the entire conversation. Gaby wants to punch him. “I know.”

Illya closes his eyes and rubs the bridge of his nose. “So instead, you hired someone to spy on me. So that we could date.”

Solo clucks his tongue. “In all honesty, it sounded like a better idea in my head. Nonetheless,” he says, brightly, “I think you two would make a great couple. That burger place down the road seems like a good place to start.”

Illya looks at him with a pinched expression. “You said we were supposed to meet there for a meeting with Waverly.”

“It was a cover for _this_ ,” he says, gesturing between Illya and Gaby. “She just sped up the whole thing of you two going out.”

“I did _not,_ ” she grits out, cracking her knuckles in the process. She spots Illya looking slightly terrified out of the corner of her eye and she feels more than slightly vindicated.

“You did,” Solo grins, “which means that you’ve made my job a lot more easier. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he pats their shoulders, “I am going back to work.”

“I have work too,” Illya points out.

“I told Waverly you were meeting someone today,” Solo says cheerfully, and waves at the both of them before he heads back into the building.

“So,” Illya says, pointedly not looking at her.

“This is ridiculous,” she mutters, and begins to walk off when Illya closes his hand around her wrist.

“Wait,” he says, somehow looking grumpier than before. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes his hand off and Illya looks hurt for a split second before his seemingly default grumpy expression returns. “There’s no need to be,” she finds herself saying, almost soothingly. Jesus. “This is just a weird situation to be in,” she concludes, and Illya nods.

“It is,” he agrees.

“So are you going back to work?”

Illya frowns. “Stupid Cowboy has sabotaged me from preventing to do any further work today.” He looks positively _murderous_ , which makes Gaby want to pat his head reassuringly or something. Which is ridiculous, considering the fact that he’s practically ten heads taller than her.

“You look like you could use a break,” she suggests, because it’s true--there are dark circles around his eyes, and it’s not like he can just storm back into the office demanding for more work without sounding like a crazy person. “Considering that _someone else_ practically forced you to.” She’s not exactly going to let Solo get away scot-free, after all.

Illya’s face softens, and when he turns to Gaby and says, “sure,” something in her stomach tightens. She should’ve really eaten something for breakfast.

Somehow, the both of them do end up going to the place Solo had recommended, partly because she’s left with Illya without anything to do and partly because Gaby’s starving, anyway.

“I hate this,” Illya tells her around a mouthful of his hamburger. He’s close to finishing it, though, and Gaby catches him eyeing her own burger so she just snorts and dips her fries in ketchup.

“You hate being around my presence?” She says, voice thick with venom.

He chokes around his Coke. “No,” he splutters, “I mean, um. American food is stupid,” he finishes, lamely, and Gaby raises her eyebrows.

“Of course,” she says.

Illya clears his throat and ends up coughing fitfully. “I am fine,” he says, unconvincingly. His face has gone slightly pink and it’s funny how a 6 foot 5 man has been reduced to a spluttering mess, she thinks, looking on with amusement. He almost looks _vulnerable_ like this, and Gaby feels like she’s slightly more fascinated by Illya Kuryakin.

“You were about to say something?” Gaby says, trying not to smile.

“Um, yes. You are German?”

She nods. “I was actually on the other side of the wall before I somehow got clearance. I suspect my late father had a part in that,” she says, with a wry grin.

“I’m sorry,” Illya says.

She shrugs. “He wasn’t there for most of my life, really. It’s fine.”

They both fall back into silence before Illya lets out a soft chuckle.

“What?” Gaby asks.

“I’m going to kill Solo.”

“Same,” she says, finishing the last of her fries before wrapping her half-eaten burger.

“You’re not going to finish that?”

She looks at it and shakes her head. Illya takes it and finishes it within seconds, and Gaby lets out a startled laugh. “So much for being against Western culture.”

“Americans have no culture,” he mutters, wiping his mouth clean with a crumpled napkin.

 

* * *

 

Her phone rings for the umpteenth time that night, and she surrenders by picking it up. “Gaby Teller,” she says, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“Napoleon Solo,” he replies, and Gaby rolls her eyes.

“What do you want.” She lets the annoyance bleed out in her voice, because what the hell, this is _Solo_ that she’s unfortunately dealing with.

“I heard the date went well,” he says, voice light. “Illya didn’t try to kill me and even looked slightly happy about that.”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“Really? Because I thought it went well--so well, in fact, that he’s asking you out again.”

“I have work to do,” she says dismissively. To be honest, her life has a private investigator has stagnated, but if anything, she’ll just pop down to the garage and work extra hours fixing cars instead. “Cars, this time.”

“The same can be said for Illya,” he argues. “Also, I guess that explains the...overalls you showed up in.”

She hums noncommittally. “Then the date’s off.”

“You can have a work date instead,” Solo protests.

“A _what?_ ”

“He can do his research at your garage,” Solo says, more to himself than to Gaby. “Yes, this is perfect. It all works out. I’ll tell Illya,” he finishes, and immediately hangs up.

Gaby stares at the telephone receiver for a long moment before putting it down.

 

* * *

 

True to Solo’s word, Illya does show up at the garage a few days later with folders in his hand and a bag that looks like it’s about to burst.

“Hello,” he says to Gaby, who’s in the middle of replacing a radiator hose for a Beetle.

“I see both you and Solo are equally persistent,” she says flatly. “Please leave.”

“I am hurt,” he says, but he’s smiling, so Gaby sighs and waves him off.

“You can use that desk over there. Sorry it’s a little messy,” she says, without really feeling apologetic, but he smiles and settles in, so she feels at a loss. He manages to clean the desk up without shifting anything out of order, and he spreads out his rather impressive stack of papers on top and immediately gets to work.

Gaby stares for a bit before shaking her head and returning to the car. Thankfully, it’s not much of a tough job, so she manages to fix it in record time before moving on to its tires, which have gone a little flat.

She’s in the middle of checking the car’s engine when she catches Illya looking at her.

“What,” she says, almost challengingly, putting a hand on her hips and narrowing her eyes.

“Nothing,” he replies, and goes back to drawing sketches of nuclear warheads or whatever he does for U.N.C.L.E.

Illya quickly fades into the background after that, and the two of them work in companionable silence. She completely forgets the fact that he’s in the garage with her until he comes up behind her and taps her on the shoulder.

“What the hell,” she hisses, dropping her wrench in the process. 

“Sorry,” he says, looking not at all sorry. “It’s getting late. I saw the other mechanics already packing up and leaving.”

“That’s impossible,” she says, whirling around to take a proper look around the room. Huh. The room _is_ empty, save for the two of them. “Never mind. I’ll see you some other time, then,” she says, dismissive, as she reaches down to pick the wrench up from the ground.

Illya, of course, beats her to it, and hands the wrench over with amusement in his eyes. Gaby kind of wants to fight him.

“Dinner at my place tomorrow night?” At Gaby’s scowl, he adds, “you know the way in.”

Gaby rolls her eyes. “Smooth.”

 

* * *

 

Because she’s a masochist, apparently, she ends up on Illya’s front door the following night in clothes that aren’t her work clothes. She’s actually dressed nicely, for once, in a designer dress that her rich uncle had bought for her and she’s got a nice clutch that once belonged to her mother. Solo would be proud, she thinks, and then immediately winces, because _Solo would be proud._

After she buzzes his doorbell, she takes a step back and smoothens the hem of her dress.

The door swings open to reveal Illya’s unsmiling face—who actually does a double take upon seeing her.

“I didn’t think you would come,” he says, and it sounds less like a joke and more like an admission that he hadn’t planned on saying out loud. His flat expression is now replaced by a rather…constipated expression instead. 

“Well,” she says, holding her hands out, “here I am.”

“Indeed,” he says, and motions for her to step into his place.

It’s still as clean and empty as ever, save for the few photos that she’d seen on her several rather unwarranted trips she’d made to his place. This time, however, there’s a fragrant smell in the air and she can’t help but sniff in search of food.

“I cooked _borscht_ for the both of us, if you don’t mind,” he tells her, and her eyes widen.

“Not at all. I’m starved,” she admits. 

Illya smiles, which again makes her stomach turn over. Her hunger must be reaching some sort of peak point, she thinks, and she pats her stomach absentmindedly.

“I hope you like what I cook,” Illya says, before darting back into the kitchen, presumably to get the food.

She almost goes with him in order to set the table but she discovers that he’s already done that, so she greets Illya with a smile of her own when he returns with a steaming hot bowl of _borscht._

“Smells good.” She’s not even trying to hide the fact that she’s inhaling deeply, now.

“Tastes good, too,” he says, confidently, and begins scooping out the bowl’s contents onto smaller bowls for the both of them. She hovers around the table, unsure of whether to help him or not before he ushers her into a seat.

Much to Gaby’s horror, the _borscht_ tastes delicious, to the point where it becomes infuriating; mostly because of the way she’s groaning around spoonfuls of the stuff and the way Illya looks at her smugly because she’s doing so.

“I will fight you,” she says, scraping her bowl for more soup before giving up and taking more from the pot. 

He laughs. “After dinner, sure." 

She takes her spoon out of her mouth and points it at Illya. “I’m serious. I’ll fight you just for this recipe. And maybe to get rid of that stupid smirk you have on your face.”

“I have no such smirk,” He says, smirking. Gaby hates him.

 

* * *

 

 “Are you guys dating yet?”

Gaby doesn’t even bother emerging out from under the car’s chassis, choosing instead to unscrew more bolts with unnecessary force. “We are not." 

Solo peers down to take a look at her, and rises back up. “Have you even kissed him?”

“That’s none of your business,” she says, shortly, and lets out a soft ‘hah’ of triumph when she’s managed to get the plating of a cover off. 

“Technically, it is, considering that I literally invested in your relationship.”

He has a point, albeit delivered in an infuriating manner. She slides away from underneath the car and stands up to face him. “That doesn’t give you the right to tell me that I should sit on his dick.” To be honest, she’s not even averse to the idea.

She still feels rewarded Solo visibly colors, though, and she can’t help but feel a little smug. “That’s not what I was going for.”

“Oh?” She counters. “Because you would’ve probably brought that up sooner or later.”

“I can see why he’s infatuated with you,” he says, grimacing, while he adjusts his cuffs.

“He is _absolutely not._ ”

Solo pulls a face. “He hasn’t actually killed me yet over the whole,” he waves a hand, “ _kerfuffle_ , so to speak, and I actually heard him whistling while he was making coffee. Coffee for the _both of us_ , Gaby.”

“Maybe he was just having a good day.”

“I wonder who was the driving force behind such a day,” Solo mutters darkly. He’s picked up a screwdriver from Gaby’s workstation and is now turning it over in his hands.

“Put that back,” she says, turning away from him to return her attention on the car.

He holds it up against the light. “Only if you go out with him again.” He sets it down the screwdriver back on the table and smiles sweetly. “Now you _definitely_ have to go out with him.”

“I hate you,” Gaby scowls, and Solo whistles tunelessly as he walks out of the store with his hands in his suit pockets.

 

* * *

 

The next time Gaby sees Illya is when he shows up on her doorstep with a bottle of wine in tow. He has a hand behind his back and he’s trying not to smile when Gaby opens the door.

“Oh my god,” she says, more out of annoyance than of surprise.

“I have a present,” he declares, and he reveals a bouquet of roses. It’s kind of cute, really, if not a little desperate, considering the fact that the whole affair felt like it was planned to a T.

Gaby shakes her head. “You’re ridiculous.” She ends up ushering him in anyway, because, again, she probably hates herself. And she gets a free bottle of wine out of it all, she thinks, as she snatches the bottle away from Illya to peer at the label. “Bordeaux,” she says, and Illya confesses that he’d bought the first bottle he had seen.

“If I had brought vodka, I would probably end up outdrinking you.”

“Funny, because that’s what I would’ve said about you.”

Because Illya is a joyless soul, he had brought over a _chessboard_. Of all things, she thinks, shaking her head, as he continues setting it up despite her protests.

“ _This_ is your idea of fun?”

Illya nods. “I get to spend time with my woman and play chess. Sure.”

Gaby is definitely not blushing, although Solo would have probably said otherwise if he were in the room observing them. He would’ve probably made a few less than subtle crude jokes as well, and would probably relish in the fact that Illya wouldn’t probably get any of them. She shakes the thought off and addresses Illya instead.

“I’m not ‘your woman’,” she says.

“Ah.” Illya says, and Gaby can’t quite tell if he’s agreeing with her or if he’s simply playing along; the way one would when talking to a child.

“I’m serious,” she ends up saying, and Illya nods.

“Of course.” He points to the chessboard expectantly. “Chess?”

Three rounds later, Gaby is decidedly more than slightly drunk and she feels like Fighting Illya For Real This Time. Also, she’s lost the past three matches, but she digresses.

“I didn’t know,” she says, trying not to stumble on her own words as she points an accusatory finger, “that you were a chess _mastermind_.” She says ‘mastermind’ with care, but she ends up slurring syllables together regardless. Illya will get it, she tells herself.

“I’m not,” he says, smiling smugly. His glass of wine has remained untouched throughout their entire game, and she figures that she shouldn’t let good things go to waste. She picks the glass up and downs the whole drink, sloshing it about in the process. A bit of red gets on her shirt, but she’ll live.

“Here’s to criminal masterminds!” She roars, standing up, and raises her glass--well, Illya’s glass, really, considering that she’s finished hers and the bottle itself--before realising that she’s already emptied it. She stumbles and conveniently falls into Illya’s lap ungracefully.

“Oof,” she says, staring at Illya’s face from underneath him. “Your face is funny from this angle,” she informs him, and curls a hand around his wrist. “And your hands are unnaturally large. Like,” she says, before forgetting what she’d intended to say in the first place.

“Are they really,” he says, voice laced with sarcasm.

She takes his hand and slaps it against his own face.

“What did you do that for?”

“You were being sarcasmas...sarcas…” She gives up and plays with his fingers instead, closing them into a fist and opening them up so that his fingers fan out.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have had so much to drink,” he says, and he pats Gaby’s shoulder absently, as if she’s a kitten that he’s trying not to spook. She sits up--elbowing Illya in the gut at the same time--and she ends up in his lap facing him.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be a creepy, cute Russian that tried to get me drunk,” she declares, jabbing Illya’s nose.

“I didn’t try to get you drunk!” He protests, before saying, “wait, ‘ _cute_ ’?”

“That’s not the point,” she replies. “I will fight you.”

“Is that so.”

“Shut up.” She stands up and hauls him upwards; turning him around so that his back is no longer to the couch, before attempting a running tackle she had seen in American football and knocks Illya over.

They end up practically _destroying_ her furniture, although she’s struggling to feel any sense of remorse over her fallen vases.

“I win,” she says, holding Illya’s arms up in the air and dropping them to the ground. They’ve ended up on the floor with Gaby straddling Illya’s chest as he lies on the ground, laughing.

“You’re not supposed to laugh,” she says, and Illya says, “oh?” and her head is swimming with something that she can’t quite place.

Illya’s eyes are so _blue_ , almost startlingly so, and she traces Illya’s cheek with her finger in awe.

“What are you doing,” Illya says, voice light.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” she says, feeling a lot more sober, now. It just feels like the right thing to do-- and maybe she’s a sucker for tall Russians who show up at her door with wine and roses and fucking chessboards, after all. She can already hear Solo making jokes about the wedding bells going off and that startles her into a laugh.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” she says, and then, “ _yes_ ,” she confirms, with a little more force this time, and if her first kiss with Illya’s is a little aggressive than how she normally kisses, it’s perfect, and she lets out a happy little sigh when Illya’s mouth opens slightly at that, and the both of them just lie there together, trading kisses that alternate between butterfly-light and something heavy.

Illya’s eyes have darkened, now; the blue irises shrinking around the dark pupils, and Gaby feels her stomach fall in one fell swoop.

 

* * *

 

“So, I hear you two are getting married,” are the first words that come out of Solo’s stupid mouth when she shows up at the U.N.C.L.E. office lobby with an arm around the crook of Illya’s elbow.

“I’m going to murder you,” Gaby says, and Solo’s lips quirk upwards.

“That’s what you told Illya, and now look at you two.” He looks at them both with a happy sigh. “My work here is done. I can die happy now.”

“Thank you, Cowboy,” Illya says, deadpan, at the same time Gaby tells him to go fuck himself.

The three of them head out with Illya and Solo arguing about NATO and other more petty matters, such as how Solo had _really_ stolen Illya’s favourite mug--”just because I used to be an art collector does not mean I think your mug is _art,_ ”--and other mundane office occurrences.

“I think it’s kind of sweet how you two are the _real_ married couple out of the three of us,” Gaby says, grinning from ear to ear, and Illya and Solo start yelling again, with Solo somehow grabbing Illya’s wallet and claiming that he would _never._

It’s all very adorable, really, she thinks, cracking her knuckles and squinting at the sky while trying to stifle a smile.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> this wasn't beta-ed sry
> 
> title taken from [the maccabees' song of the same title.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_tR5cCtGtE) which is TOTALLY about gabillya you guys!!!
> 
> i was lit writing a napkin soulmate au, then i was writing a flight attendant au..yanno..as you do...and then somehow this happened instead and i finished this first. so. whoops.
> 
> hmu on [twitter](http://twitter.com/kvryakin) to yell about these dorks!!!! or napkin!!! or all three of them as an ot3!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! thank


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